The Death of a Duke
by Canis Vimes
Summary: Vimes is murdered, but death is confused as to why he isn't technically dead. *FINALLY chapter FIVE.* V. sorry I've taken so long, to those of you who care!
1. Default Chapter

THE DEATH OF A DUKE

Notes: I thought I should try my hand at a more serious fic, as my two to date are a little… nonsecal. Is that a word? Oh well. Anyway, I wanted to try out this idea. I'm afraid these first two chapters are rather strained… I want to get on to the interesting side of this story and really develop the plot. J So be easy, I know these aren't of the highest standard. I may go back and rewrite these, but as I said I really do want to get on. I'm enjoying writing this. But, feel free to criticise. Thanks for reading! 

Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, or the setting. All credit goes to Terry Pratchett. 

Chapter One  

A drunk stumbled blindly out of 'The Bucket,' and into the depressing gloom that is Cable Street.

On this particular night, however, the darkness hung fast in all its misery only to the shadowy alleys. The street's centre was lit by a large winters full moon, hovering silently in widowy splendour above the rooftops of Ankh Morpork. 

The man paused for a while to allow his eyes time to focus on the bottle in his right hand before draining the remnants, feeling the familiar burn of foul whiskey trickle down his throat.  

            He spat in an attempt to rid himself of the foul after taste and drew a rattling breath, gasping in the frosty winters air. With an unsteady lurch he launched the bottle aside, pausing to hear the satisfactory smash of glass on stone. 

            But the break of the glass never came. Somewhere within the deep recesses of the alleyway a skinny figure caught the bottle easily, as one with experience, and turned it over in his hands. 

Bearhuggers. He could've guessed as much. He let his finger trace longingly over the brash writing covering the label. He wrinkled his nose at the smell masking the bottles liquid – smoke, vomit, saliva… and blood. Still… he tipped the bottle upside down over his hand hopefully. A solitary drip crept out reluctantly and settled in his palm, a small wisp of steam rising off it.   

Vimes glanced up guiltily, expecting to see the reproachful face of Captain Carrot watching him, but the shadows were empty of shape.

A huge figure loomed out of the alley. The drunk scrambled fearfully away across the cobbles. The figure was fumbling for a weapon. 

"You, sir, are under arrest," The figure began, drawing a notebook out. "For Littering That Is Likely To Cause-" He stopped as Vimes gave a pull at his sleeve from within the gloom. 

"Carrot! We-are-meant-to-be-hiding!" He hissed.

"But sir-" Carrot looked in the general direction of Vimes's voice. It was impossible to see anything, the famous eerie mist of the city was gathering rapidly around them. Vimes gave an urgent tug and Carrot reluctantly allowed himself to be drawn in. The drunk hurried on his way.  

Vimes froze. If they hadn't been hiding in the shadows, you would have seen a triumphant manic grin sweep across his face, as smooth yet sudden as a swallow over water.

"He's on the rooftop!" Vimes whispered hoarsely. Carrot nodded slowly. They'd both heard the familiar grind of a roof-tile slipping. A small section of ice fell off the roof and landed softly at their feet.

"I'll just-"

"No!" Carrot stopped in his tracks.

"I'm going after him." Vimes's face was briefly visible as a sliver of moonlight slipped over his sharp features. He looked determinedly up at Carrot, who shrugged. 

"Be careful, sir." 

Vimes gave a grim smile. He would have to be. He was going after the notorious Lemaime, one of Ankh Morpork's biggest criminal faces. 

He'd met him once before. Vimes scrambled onto the rooftop, the thin soles of his boots felt Carrot's shoulder muscles straining beneath his feet.

He'd looked right into Lemaime's eyes. They said that a mans soul was reflected from within his eyes. 

His eyes were bottomless. 

Empty. The man had no soul. Black nothing, empty of emotion, instinct. He was just a shell. He could stare down into Carcers eyes and find a different madness. You could detect a soul, though.

Vimes spat, and automatically drew a cigar from his pocket. A blackened soul, true, but it was _there. It was what made you human. _

He gave an involuntary shudder and lit his cigar with a shaking hand. 

So why was he here? Why was he now alone, on the unforgiving landscape of the rooftops? He could've let Carrot arrest him… Gods knew he enjoyed doing so enough. Vimes let the smoke furl out of his mouth, curling into wisps of tangled grey snakes, watching them writhe blindly before fading into nothing. 

He stiffened. A noise sounded slightly to his right. The one good thing about Lemaime – he carried no other weapon but knives. It gave Vimes the happy knowledge that he wasn't going to be skewered by a well aimed crossbow bolt. He hastily stubbed out his cigar and cursed himself for being so stupid, before easing himself ready to spring. 

Ah. There he was. The shadows on the roof next to the Bucket were slightly too dark, outlining the silhouette of a crouching figure. But he had to be sure. He fumbled for his smoking cigar and flicked it gently to a spot just behind the shape. It landed with a soft noise onto the tiles. 

Using one hand as a pivot the figure spun around with cat-like agility, raised it's free arm and skewered the cigar on the end of a long bladed knife, within the space of a split second. The blade caught the moonlight and flashed a bright beam of light, Vimes closed his eyes seconds too late. The imprinted lights danced over his lids like millions of little flickering stars. He blinked rapidly, head ringing. Damn! It would take his eyes a long time now to adjust to the darkness.

He forced them wide open and squinted. He couldn't quite see… the darkness moved and shifted under his gaze. 

Lemaime was gone.  

A long arm reached over the chimney pot grabbing him by the neck, and in one sweeping movement pulled the Commander over onto his back. He slammed heavily onto the roof with his arms wrenched underneath him, letting out a gasp as a fist collided with his chest. Vimes struggled blindly. He couldn't see, damn it! A blow to the head caused the stars to multiply rapidly, and he stopped struggling. A hand with an iron grip wormed it's way towards Vimes's neck and took firm hold, squeezing viciously. He choked. 

The Duke of Ankh gave a last desperate cry, wasting his last breath and flailed his legs uselessly. 

*****************

From below the bucket Carrot straightened, a desperate cry ringing through the air. In an instant he'd swung himself nimbly onto the roof.

"Sir?" He called cautiously. "Vimes?" He knew he was being extremely foolish, but there was no time to call for back-up. 

Vimes would give him a hiding later for this. Carrot drew his sword. Just in case. 

*****************

The pressure around his neck eased slightly, his attacker allowed him to draw in a rasping breath. Vimes groaned weakly, his eyes made vain attempts to focus. The hideous face of Lemaime filled his blurred vision.

The criminal grinned, curling back scarred lips and flashing rows of blackened uneven teeth. 

Why wouldn't his damn legs work? Ah. Lemaime was crouched on them. By the feeling in his limbs he'd shattered both his kneecaps. His arms were trapped underneath him. 

Vimes's stared dumbstruck as he watched Lemaime slowly draw a knife from his belt. He peered closer, natural curiosity getting the better of him. It was caked in dried blood. Lemaime bared his teeth once more as he caught the look of disgust flicker through the copper's eyes. 

"I never clean it." He hissed, drawing his face ever closer to Vimes, who made a feeble attempt to wriggle away, then moaned as he heard one of his arms crack from underneath him. Lemaime gloated over his fallen enemy.

"Every man, woman and child I've ever killed's blood stains this knife." He fingered it lovingly, before bringing his face so close Vimes squirmed, the putrid hot breath blown over his face.

The warning bells in his head rang loud and clear. He stared furiously straight into the black abyss of the murderers eyes.

"Care to join them?" Lemaime cackled. 

He brought the knife to Vimes's throat and drew it quickly across in an artful, fluid movement.   

*****************

Carrot's skin felt like a thousand ants fleeing a sinking ship. He felt it crawl up the back of his neck, sending his hairs on end. 

A chill ran down his spine. With sudden dread he rushed instinctively round a chimney pot, his feet slapping heavily on the tiles. 

"Si-" His voice died within his throat, and he closed his eyes at the hideous sight that met them.  

"Vimes…" He croaked. The corpse stared with glassy eyes into nothing, the blood flowing freely from it's throat, the foul metallic smell of blood reached Carrot's nostrils. 

He looked away, his eyes prickled and hot tears fell treacherously down his face. He felt his face contract into an expression of deep anguish, and did nothing to stop it.


	2. Meeting the Reaper

Disclaimer: None of the characters, setting or anything belong to me. All credit goes to Terry Pratchett.

Chapter Two

Vimes opened his eyes and looked around. 

He'd always wondered who the architect was that designed Ankh Morpork. It was either a great artist, or a complete novice. 

The buildings were tall and threatening, like great weatherworn cliffs. They loomed over the streets, casting a dark shadow over the cobbles. Sharp and bitter. Personally Vimes thought this reflected the city's people perfectly.

On this night the ancient architecture was silhouetted against the low moon, the mist clung to doorframes. It gave an eerie surreal quality to the landscape, like a ghost town. 

He considered this comment with growing dread, memory creeping up on him. 

Vimes scrambled to his feet, and stared down in horror at his previous physical form, his suspicions confirmed.  

"He bloody killed me!" Vimes yelled, outraged. 

IT CERTAINLY SEEMS SO.** Death hoped this was somewhat sympathetic enough. **

"Of all the low down scum… Lemaime!" Vimes passed a hand over his eyes. "This is such an insult." He turned to Death, realising the absence of anyone else to talk to.

"I never even got to spit in his face or anything!"

EXCUSE ME?** Death said politely. **

"No last words!" Vimes suddenly slumped against the chimney beside his still corpse. He sat silently for a long time, staring miserably into the nights sky. A cold wind bit into his skin, and he shivered. Death waited patiently. 

"Shouldn't I be fading or something?" He asked eventually. 

If it was possible, Death looked awkward. 

USUALLY. 

Vimes waited.

BUT THERE HAS BEEN A… PROBLEM.****

"You're telling me!" Vimes resigned to the fact that, if he was going to be dead, he wasn't going to make it easy for Death. There was a thing as going down fighting.

NO, I MEAN… Death wavered. THIS IS HARD FOR ME TO EXPLAIN TO A MORTAL.

 "It's tough for me too!" Vimes watched sadly as Carrot approached his body cautiously. He was crying openly, his huge muscular shoulders shook with the sobs he tried to contain. 

"It's OK Carrot." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Death gave him a pitying look. He hated that. He gave the Grim Reaper an angry scowl.  

Carrot gingerly placed his hands under the corpse and lifted it easily. Vimes winced as his own head lolled lifelessly from side to side, his eyes unseeing and wide with shock. He watched Carrots retreating back with an empty feeling inside, wondering vaguely if he would always feel empty wherever he was going. 

The cloaked figure spoke hesitantly.

YOU ARE NOT ACTUALLY DEAD. AS SUCH.****

Vimes stood up, brushing himself off. He did not answer straight away. He looked into the fathomless sockets of Death's skull and turned hastily away, reminded of Lemaime. He clenched his fists.

"Is this a joke?" He asked quietly. "Do I have to pass a test or something?"

Death sighed heavily. 

WHEN YOU DIE, Death began, USUALLY WHAT YOU BELIEVE TO HAPPEN, HAPPENS. He waited for this to sink in. 

"And?" Vimes looked at himself…the himself _now, properly for the first time since…the accident. He felt gingerly around his throat, and was relieved to discover it wasn't slit. _

The thing was, he felt… physical. He seemed too –

SOLID. YES. I AM VERY CONFUSED, SIR SAMUEL. Death voiced his thoughts. YOU SHOULD BE A GHOST FIGURE…BUT YOU ARE NOT.

Death was slightly unnerved, if it was possible. There were little things wrong here. Many little things. 

The man was feeling the cold. He watched him shiver.

This was not right, 

His hair was blowing in the wind. 

This was also not right. 

He was solid, yet Carrot could not see him. 

How intriguing.  

Vimes gave Death a calculating look, and clapped his hands. They made a noise. He was certainly solid. 

YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. Death said slowly. So saying he put a bony hand into his robes and drew out a short, small hourglass. It wasn't very elegant. Verging on the grotesque, actually. He held it up so Vimes could read the inscription. 

"Cecil Nobbs." Vimes registered this. Cecil…wasn't that Nobby's real name? 

"That's Nobby's life?" Vimes said weakly. Death nodded. The hourglass looked normal to Vimes. Little grains of golden sand fell steadily through the middle. It looked like Nobby had plenty of time left at least. Vimes shrugged. 

"And?" He repeated.  Death put his hand into his robes again, and drew out a second glass. Vimes waited patiently. After all, he had all the time in the world. 

SAMUEL VIMES, THIS IS YOUR LIFE.****

Death handed him the glass. It was nothing special. Slightly tatty, Vimes noted, slightly offended. He turned it over in his hands so the name stared back at him. He looked in wonderment. 

The glass was empty. 

"Er…is this normal when you die?" He murmured, half to himself. 

NO.** Death replied simply. IT IS NORMAL FOR THE CONTENTS OF THE GLASS TO ARRIVE AT ONE END.**** THEN THE GLASS GOES ONTO… Death waved his hand vaguely. WHEREVER. BUT THIS? He shook his skull. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND.******

Vimes fidgeted. "Was it like this yesterday?" Death shook his head. The silence was beginning to get to Vimes. 

"And?" He repeated again. 

Death turned an icy glare onto Vimes upturned face.

AND? 

"What happens to me now?"  

Death snapped two bony brittle fingers, and Vimes's glass disappeared. 

Vimes gulped. A huge white horse materialized in an instant by Deaths side.

I THINK YOU'D BETTER COME WITH ME.

Er…this will be continued by the way. Anyway, please R&R. 


	3. More Big Talk

**Chapter Three**

Diclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, setting, or anything in this story. All rights go to Terry Pratchett and his publishers. 

The Watch house.

The main room was a cramped space. Tables could be sketched out from the murky shadows, piled with paperwork so old you could smell the rot. The room was lit only by a few tired embers within a dusty fireplace, glowing pitifully, endeavouring to omit warmth to the three shivering watchmen that remained on duty.   

The effort was in vain. A young woman paced the floorboards before the mantle place, pausing every moment to prick up her ears, her face the very picture of hope. Angua blew on her hands and crouched before the fire, shivering, taking a deep shaking breath to steady herself she inhaled the smoke fumes. 

Her eyes watered and she blinked furiously. 

_They should be back by now. _

"I'll be of great use, sir."

Vimes had pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"No, Angua. You're to stay here, guard the watch house. It'll only need the two of us."

"But-"

"That was an order, sergeant." He had kept his eyes down and forced his face into a blank expression, stumbling out of the door and into the night. Carrot had given her a wane smile and walked after him. 

And she'd watched him go. 

She heard a low growl and stiffened, only to realise it was coming from her. Nobby and Fred looked up from their card game, and started a muttered conversation. 

She ran her hands through long blond hair and shut her eyes tight. Why-

Footsteps. She strained her ears. 

Big feet…sandaled… they flapped slightly. Yes, it was Carrot. But…they were weighted with something… and he was walking slowly…

It felt like a cold stream of water was trickling down into her stomach. She burst out of the door. 

"Carrot!" 

He didn't reply. He had his head down, and was cradling a bundle in his massive arms, wrapped in his cloak. His face overshadowed she could not read his expression. Angua ran to his side. 

"Carrot…" She smiled uncertainly. She let her hand move to his face, but he twitched away, a single warm tear drop settled on her palm. 

It was then she smelt the blood. And death. 

Her mouth mouthed the word soundlessly. Her bright eyes widened to become limpid pools of silver moonlight. 

"No…" Her high voice wavered foolishly in the nights air. 

*******************

Vimes groaned, and closed his eyes, gripping hard to the Grim Reapers cloak. 

BINKY IS GOING VERY SLOWLY, SIR SAMUEL.

Vimes made a great effort and managed to stammer a reply. 

"B-binky?"

YES. BINKY. SUITS HIM, DON'T YOU THINK?

Vimes dared to open his eyes and saw the liquid swirling pool of colours surrounding them, and shut them quickly again. This was not his kind of thing. He was a thief taker, a copper. A man of the city, as Carrot would say. 

THEY SAY YOU FEAR NOTHING.

"Who's…they?" Vimes asked, with weak sarcasm. The horse gave a small lurch, and they were stationary. As the cloak moved away Vimes let his fingers relax a little, and flopped onto the ground.

"Ouch."

THE VERY SAME THEY IN 'YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY' AND THE 'EVERYBODY' IN 'EVERYBODY DOES IT'. Death watched Vimes pick himself stiffly from the ground, wincing. He prised a few small stones from where they'd become embedded into his arm.

I SHOULD PERHAPS HAVE WARNED YOU OF THE GRAVEL DRIVE.

Vimes ignored this. 

What a strange place. I'm not on the Disc, that's obvious. But not in a physical way. The whole place has a surrealistic quality. 

There _was a landscape. They'd stopped in front of a shabby cottage-like house with a small garden, but behind it mountains rolled in the distance, and golden fields blew in a soft breeze. _

"You…that is to say…live here?" Vimes looked doubtfully at the view surrounding him. It was nothing like what he'd expected. Mind you, with a horse named Binky…

AS SUCH, YES.

He wasn't listening. Vimes considered. The horse should be black as coal. With a long flowing mane and glowing red eyes. And a regal, grand name. Something godly. Carrot would know. 

He felt a small twinge as he thought of Carrot and the Watch. 

And the house should be tall. Looming and threatening, with a garden of bones…he embellished on his mental creation, absently following Death up the path to the front door and frowning at the pansies in bloom.

"Any fluffy rabbits about the place?" He asked sarcastically. 

NOT MANY. I'M AFRAID THE KITTENS ARE LEARNING TO HUNT AT THE MOMENT. 

Was _Death being sarcastic? _

Death turned to face him as he turned the door handle. 

COME IN, SIR SAMUEL. PLEASE WIPE YOUR FEET.

Vimes obliged and shuffled his wet boots over the 'welcome' door mat. Once more his mouth dropped open at the view that met his mortal eyes. 

The hall stretched on far further than the exterior of the house could ever have contained. In the distance a stairway could be made out. Wait… Vimes squinted. It wasn't far away. Yes it was- 

"How-"

DISTANCE IS… OPTIONAL HERE. 

Death began to cross the hall, with a strange slippery quality to his movement. Vimes attempted to follow, stumbling around in what seemed like two dimensions at once. The Reaper pulled down a handle with strange cracking sound effects, and entered a room beyond. 

Vimes did a few strange side steps and almost tripped. With a strange sliding sensation, he made a desperate jump for the door, slamming right into it. 

"God damn!" He clutched a bloody nose with one hand and grappled with the handle with the other. He slipped into the room. 

Death sat in the middle of the room at a grand wooden table, smoking a pipe with a small ivory skull engraved into the end. 

Sam felt a sudden sharp pain in his chest.

This was due to the fact that a rather disgruntled looking man was jabbing a finger into it. 

"I see what you mean sir!" He exclaimed, giving Vimes another sharp prod. "Very solid, sir!" 

"'xcuse m-"

"He sounds physical too!" The old man was shorter than Vimes, and peered up into his face, eyes widening. 

"_He's bleeding too!"_

ALBERT… Death warned, smoke gently furling from his eye sockets. 

"Sorry sir. Just a shock to see a bleeding dead person sir." 

"Duh beeding dead berson 'ould 'ike domething doo stem duh blood!" Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose. The old man cackled and threw him a shabby cloth from on top of an old-fashioned cooker. Vimes pressed it to his nose, and did his best to glare at the man through watery eyes.  

"Albert, sir, at your service, your deadness." Albert remained unmoved as Vimes cranked up the ferocity of the glare to notch ten. He turned and busied himself at the cooker. Death motioned to Vimes to sit down. 

"How'd you like your fish, oh bloody nosed one?" 

"Fried." Vimes sighed, removing the cloth from his nose.  

"Good, good." At that moment a small skeletal rat leapt up onto the table. 

Vimes blinked. 

It seemed very disappointed that this was the only reaction, and slouched a little. 

"And what're you called? Squeaky?" 

SQUEAK!

The little rat was wearing a cloak, and carrying a small scythe. It shook it defiantly. 

"Good grief…" 

Albert shoved the rat to one side and tossed a plate of burnt fish towards Vimes, who grabbed at it eagerly. He hadn't realised how hungry he was.

Albert drew up a seat, and began to eat his portion noisily. Death watched them. 

I THINK I WILL EXPLAIN THE SITUATION A LITTLE MORE THOUROGHLY NOW. 

"Oh, good!" 

Death regarded him coldly. 

I DID NOT MENTION BEFORE, THAT THIS HAS HAPPENED TO ANOTHER ALREADY.

 Vimes swallowed. "Really? And where's he?" 

PROABABLY SLEEPING RIGHT NOW. WE HAVE GIVEN HIM A ROOM UPSTAIRS. Death twiddled bony thumbs absently. HE ARRIVED YESTERDAY NIGHT, I THINK, IN YOUR TIME. ALBERT HAS NOT MET HIM YET, SO FORGIVE HIS FASCINATION IN YOUR…STATE. 

"Who's he?" 

Death hesitated. I WILL NOW ENDEAVOR TO EXPLAIN THIS FULLY. YOUR KILLER-

_"Lemaime?"_

Death nodded. 

Albert rugby tackled Vimes as he made a break for the door. 

HE'S IN THE SAME POSITION AS YOU, SIR SAMUEL. 

"What, his legs are broken too?" Vimes rubbed his knees gingerly. Albert had very quick reflexes for such an old-looking man. 

NO. HE'S DEAD, TECHNICALLY. BUT HIS HOURGLASS… 

Once more Death produced a glass and held it up. It was empty. 

"Am I supposed to care about that bastard? He killed me!"

NO, SIR SAMUEL, HE DIDN'T. LEMAIME WAS MURDERED, AND I USE THE TERM LOOSELY, BY A VERY POWERFUL WIZARD. AS WERE YOU. 

"I saw him!" Vimes protested. "He looked-"

HE KILLED YOU WITH A KNIFE, THAT IS CORRECT?

"Yes." Vimes said sourly.

Death sat back. IT IS MY THEORY, THAT THE WIZARD'S KNIFE HAS MAGICAL PROPERTIES. 

Vimes's eyes narrowed. 

THE KNIFE SUCKS THE LIFE FROM YOU. 

"But then, by rights I should be dead. You saw my body… _I saw my body. Carrot had it…" _

YET YOU REMAIN PHYSICAL. I THINK HE HAS TAKEN YOUR LIFE FROM YOUR BODY… JUST _TAKEN, _SIR SAMUEL. YOUR LIFE IS NOT EXTUINGUISHED. IT SIMPLY BELONGS TO HIM. HE _USED LEMAIME'S LIFE, WHICH NOW ALSO IS HIS, TO KILL YOU. THINK OF IT LIKE COMPLICATED POSSESSION OF A PERSON. HE CAN TAKE THE FORM OF YOUR LIFE, IF YOU WILL._

"He's got my _life?_" He suddenly felt so helpless. "What am _I_ then? Can he _use it?" _

I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. BUT YOU ARE PHYSICAL. AND YES, HE CAN 'USE' IT. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT HIS MOTIVES ARE…THE ONLY ONE WHO HOLDS THE ANSWERS IS THE WIZARD IN QUESTION. HIS NAME IS SMARNAUFF. 

"I have to get back to the disc," Vimes clambered up off the floor. "I have to-"

NO, SIR SAMUEL, YOU CANNOT. YOU CANNOT RETURN TO THE DISC IN YOUR CURRENT STATE. 

This wasn't _happening._

"Then how-"

As he spoke there was a small flash of blue light, and Death vanished before his eyes. The empty chair stared back at him. "What the…?" 

"He's been called on duty." Albert supplied. "You wash, I'll dry." 

Vimes snapped his head towards the man, who waved a dish at him impatiently. 

"_Oh…" He felt a small twinge of relief, privately hoping Albert didn't have the same mind reading capabilities his master seemed to hold. Vimes's graphic imagination had gone slightly haywire in that moment. Albert shoved a pair of blue rubber gloves towards him, which he dutifully pulled on. _

"Commander of the City Watch you may be, but if you're going to stay here, you're gonna pull your weight, right?" Albert slapped a sponge into Vimes's rubbered hand. 

"What does Lemaime do then…?"

Vimes scrubbed at a plate in a dream-like state. This couldn't be happening. He was doing the dishes in Death's house. And come to that, he thought, frowning, the Grim Squeaker was eyeing the bubbly water.  

"He did the ironing last night." 

"_What?" Vimes turned to stare at Albert and didn't notice the little rat jump gleefully into the hot tub. _

"He weren't too happy about it mind you…" Albert muttered, not looking up. "But the master can be very persuasive."

"You got him to do the _ironing_?" Vimes laughed. It felt like the first time in days… it _was the first time in days. He grinned, and rummaged in the tub. _

SQUEAK!

Vimes gave the bony head a hard scrub with a sponge. 

SQUEAFGH!!!!

"Serves you right," He replied to the rodent, removing it carefully and placing it onto the side board. "You'll make people sick." So saying he instinctively patted his pockets for a cigar. They were empty. Oh, yeah, he was dead, right? 

"I don't suppose-"

"No smoking."

"Oh."

He washed for a few more minutes in silent contemplation. When was the last time he'd done the dishes? Not since he'd been made Commander, that was for sure. When he'd been captain they'd had some rule…they'd wait until there were absolutely no clean mugs left anywhere in the Watch House. The person to use the last clean mug'd have to do the washing… yeah, 'cos Nobby used to keep at least two hidden under the floorboards in the main room just in case. Mind you, this was fair enough, he could barely reach the sink. Of course he and Fred soon found out. Vimes grinned – they'd poured all the soapy water down his armour.

And at home they had butlers and maids and stuff. He stared at his distorted reflection through a large bubble, before bursting it with his nose. It actually felt pretty damn good, doing all of this again. He felt refreshed. 

And Gods, this spoon was damn tricky to clean. 

"Here! Look at all of them bits of egg in the bottom of the pan, eh?" Albert sprayed, waving the pan he'd just handed him around dangerously close to Sam's face. "Get that back in the water you hear? Or you'll have a clip around the ear!" 

Vimes grinned again. Albert was likeable.

"Wipe that smile off your face!" 

He did his famous stature impression. 

He could grow to like it here.

He froze. 

Would it really come to that? No. No, he'd get back. But that voice…

_YOU CANNOT RETURN TO THE DISC IN YOUR __CURRENT__STATE__. _

It sounded to final. There was no use in arguing with Death… but there was no use in arguing with Sam Vimes either. 

Why did it have to be him? 

Once more, his very thoughts stopped as he deciphered what he'd just considered.

Why him _indeed. Death didn't know this weirdo's motives. But he could _use _his life. Although he hated to think of himself that way, he was a big face in society. _

Imagine the havoc he could wreak to his friends and family. 

The Watch!

_Sybil!_

He pulled off his rubber gloves and spun around.

"Here!" Albert shouted after him. "Where-"

"I can't stay here! Sybil and…and…" He trailed off, and stared dumbstruck at the figure that had just slipped quietly, like a ghost, through the door. 

And the cold face of Havelock Vetinari stared back at him.


	4. Back to the Disc

Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I don't own any setting, characters or anything in this story, apart from the plot. That's mine. Mwahahaha.  

Thanks: To everyone who's reviewed! I always feel very…  strange (for want of a better word) when I read all these brilliant stories written by people twice, sometimes thrice my age, and reviews perk me up a lot. J You keep me writing this, and in truth I'm loving it. Thank you so much! 

It rained. 

Large thunder clouds overcast the city, rolling across the limpid grey sky like great ships over the sea. The heavy droplets fell on the upturned collars of the citizens below, trickled down rusting gutters and splashed gently down onto the cobbles of the filth-ridden streets, clearing a path through the slime.  

A large crowd of black could be deciphered through the mists, standing huddled atop a hill in overlooking the West of the city. It was no cloud but a gathering of people on the cold morning. Wind whipped their faces, pulling away the tears. 

In the centre of the crowd a small freshly cut gravestone stood erect and tall, the name gleaming as the streams of rain ran down the face. 

Commander Samuel Vimes

Lady Sybil had been very firm about one thing amidst her grief: no other formalities. Just Commander. It was how he would have wanted it to be.

It was quite a gathering, probably the largest so far for a member of the Watch's funeral, which was traditionally a lonely affair with no more than a handful of mourners present. Watchmen did not tend to be very popular people. The whole of the Watch had, of course, turned out for it. Even constable Downspout had crept down from the rooftops with a little persuasion, though he had a few pigeons on his person in case he got too edgy. Dorfl the golem, had to leave when it started to rain. His skin had started to run. 

Then a few of the nobles: Lady Sybil of course, her whole household. She'd not stopped crying since last night, and now she stood tall and noble, her eyes puffy and red. Even Mrs Palm and a few of her girls had attended. 

It was only noticed by one that the Patrician had not appeared. Sergeant Angua thought it odd, but did not dwell on the thought.

The werewolf stood at the front next to Carrot while Constable Visit read whatever it was he was reading. Everyone was numb. Far off she heard people crying. Vimes would have scowled at that.  

Slowly she realised that the crowd had begun to disperse. The coffin had been lowered and the prayers had been said… everyone was going home. They'd been there – she checked her watch – two hours. She looked up from her thoughts, to be greeted by a strong gust of wind that whipped her hair fiercely across her face, stinging. She blinked back tears. This wasn't like her. 

Only two lonely figures remained. One was Reg Shoe. He held onto the hope that Vimes might yet return as a zombie, privately taking a shovel along, 'just in case.' Now he sat a little way off, leaning against a tree, waiting with the, ha, undying patience the undead possessed.  

The other was Carrot. He stood hunched up over the grave. He hadn't said a word since he'd explained in a cracked voice what had happened last night. Angua gave him a sideways look. 

He stood staring blindly down at the fresh earth, eyes red-rimmed and unseeing. The tears mingled with the steady flow of rain and streamed off his nose onto the soil. Angua felt the back of her eyes heating. She'd never seen him cry before.    

"Carrot…" Angua bit her lip. "You musn't blame yourself for what happened." Carrot continued to stare despondently at the ground, now a small puddle of water had formed where the small river of tears and water had been running. His own reflection peered back at him. "There was nothing-"

He turned to face her, and she stopped mid-sentence. 

"He wouldn't have wanted us to dwell over it." Carrot sniffed heavily and straightened slightly. "He'd be very annoyed if he saw me now." 

"No, Carrot. He'd understand." She gave a small smile, and took his hand. "He's probably watching us right now, having a dri- I mean, a cigar, relaxing. His troubles are over now, Carrot. But we have to move on."

Carrot nodded. The two watchmen moved off down into the city, arm in arm, each having eased the pain slightly, and taking comfort in one another's  presence. 

******************

Meanwhile…

Vimes heard a horrible strangled cry. 

It had come from him. 

"You!" He pointed an accusing finger at the Patrician, who adopted a look as innocent as a trained assassin could possibly achieve. 

"Ah, Vimes. Good to see you alive and well." 

Once more Albert showed an impressive display of lightening reflexes, though this time he managed to strike Vimes hard enough with the soapy frying pan he simply crumpled on the floor as he lunged at Vetinari. Death glided through the door and sat once more at his table, lighting up his pipe again.

I APOLIGISE SIR SAMUEL. DUTY CALLS. I'M SURE YOU UNDERSTAND. He noticed the frying pan in Albert's hand. It had a considerably large dent in it. 

I ALWAYS WONDERED HOW YOU DID THAT. 

"What, sir?"

MANAGE TO REACT SO QUICKLY. 

"Saw the manic gleam in his eye, sir."

"Wha?" Vimes watched the little skeletal rats dance round his head, singing a strange song. He slumped back onto the floor.

The Patrician seemed to be enjoying himself. 

"The Reaper explained the situation to me on the way over, Vimes. We seem to be in quite a predicament." He smiled pleasantly. 

And Vimes fell asleep. 

Albert looked with distaste at the unconscious man on the floor, then to the broken ringing pan in his hand.  

I SEE WHAT YOU MEAN ALBERT. BUT YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO HIT HIM QUITE SO HARD THE SECOND TIME, HE WAS ALREADY MOVING SLOWLY.

"Yes, but the bastard made me dirty the pan, 'scusing my language sir. Goodness knows where his head's been. I'm going to have to wash the damn thing all over again."

Much later, the men (as such) sat round the table in the kitchen. Albert had a pint of beer, Vetinari drank a glass of wine and Vimes sat with a glass of lemonade and a very sore head. He had not long been awake, and his previous horror and fury at finding the Patrician had cooled. 

"So you're dead too?"

"That is correct. I heard you call to me from the window. I went to it to answer." At this Havelock Vetinari's expression turned sour. "I was an idiot. You dropped down from the roof and slit my throat with a strange shaped knife." Vetinari closed his eyes and let his fingers form an arch by his temple. 

Vimes didn't even bother being surprised at the 'you.' He turned to Death for a confirmation of his suspicions. 

YES. SMARNAUFF MUST HAVE USED YOUR LIFE, AND ASSUMED YOUR FORM. 

Vetinari looked cool about all of this. Actually, it would have been a lot more surprising if he'd shown any emotion, but it still irked Vimes. He stood up, knocking his chair backwards. 

"So how do I get back to the damn _Disc?"_

"I?" The Patrician opened his eyes and peered at Vimes over his fingers. Vimes only then realised that out of habit, he wasn't looking at the Patrician but at a spot on the wall above his left ear. He made an effort and met his gaze.

"Yes, I." He snapped. Then faltered as he realised what he was suggesting. "You… don't plan on coming too…sir?"

Vetinari gave a soft frown. "But of course Vimes. Your wife needs you. My city shall require me. Is that not so?" 

"Yes, sir." Vimes replied automatically. 

THERE IS ONE WAY. Death interrupted. BUT IT IS LIABLE TO GO WRONG. ONLY BY THEORY YOU UNDERSTAND- Vimes rolled his eyes –TO BE HERE YOU HAVE NO LIFE, THEREFORE YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY RETURN TO THE DISC. IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE. 

Vimes looked blank. 

Havelock leaned forward.  He slowly said, "Are you suggesting possession?" 

Death nodded. Vetinari, if it was possible, paled slightly. Vimes looked from one to the other. 

"Wha?" 

IT IS THEORETICALY POSSIBLE FOR YOU TO POSSESS A LIFE ON THE DISC. TO HAVE COMPLETE CONTROL OVER THE PERSON. Death explained. 

Vimes's eyes narrowed. "Isn't that exactly what this Smarnauff guy did?" 

Vetinari nodded. 

"Then why the hell-" 

IT IS THE _ONLY_ WAY, SIR SAMUEL. UNDERSTAND THAT IF YOU DO NOT, YOU MUST REMAIN HERE FOREVER. 

Vimes looked around the kitchen, that for only a few hours he'd grown to like. He hesitated, very slightly. 

AND OF COURSE, SO MUST THE PATRICIAN. 

"Count me in."

GOOD LUCK. Death made a signal to Albert. Vetinari closed his eyes. Vimes scowled at Death.

"What do-"

Albert knocked them both out with a swift movement, and both the men slumped. 

"It's all in the wrist." 

YES ALBERT. NOW STAND BACK, AND I SHALL BEGIN THE INCANTATION. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry this is a short one. Already writing next chapter. Gods, I'm having fun…

Oh, and one last note. It's really annoying me that no-one's read this story because it's so damn good! So go here and READ it! And REVIEW it! Because it's ten times better English than this! Geez! Now! Hurry! http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1185351


	5. Possession

Chapter Five

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, setting, or anything in this story. All rights go to Terry Pratchett and his publishers. 

The thief reached down through the window and grinned at his prize lying on the bedside-table below him. He could hear his victims heavy snoring from inside the room.

The pouch of money was so close…

The boy wrapped his knees over the edge and lowered himself slowly head first into the room, curling his body out silently to reach the booty. He took his forged guild receipt from his pocket and readied to lay it on the floor, grasping it tightly in one hand he reached out with the other.  

He strained to grasp at the little bag, and let out a small squeak of desperation. The figure in the bed beside the table gave a snort and flung out a hand in sleep. He gave a frantic swing and only just avoided the man. Frowning with concentration a drop of sweat fell to the floor. He groaned, the blood ran to his head and blurred his vision. 

Just a little further… allowing his knees to loosen their grip the lightest amount he slipped forward and felt his fingers curl around the pouch, sighing in relief. Got it! 

~~~

Vimes stared into the black abyss patiently, as he floated around in sub-space.

At first it had been terrifying. Now it was getting boring, Vimes thought blandly, as he flipped absently onto his back.

SQUEAK.

"What the-?"

A little skeletal rat emerged from his trouser pocket. 

"Alright ratty-"

SQUEAK!

"-what do I do now?" He glared at the head that protruded form his pocket, wondering how on earth he hadn't come to notice the bulge before. The rat waved a bony paw vaguely. 

SQUEAK.

"Wait? What, just keep floating?" Vimes moved his arm to scratch his head and was swung off balance, being forced to perform a ridiculous twirl in mid-air. "Don't I get to choose who I…" Vimes pulled a face. "Possess?" 

SQUEAK. 

"No? Why not?" He demanded. 

SQUEAK. 

"I'm not like that!" 

SQUEAK. 

"I don't care if it was just a damned example! Don't suggest stuff like that, bone bag." 

SQUEAK!

Vimes sighed. "Alright, so it's just how it works. Fine. I get it."

He grabbed the rat form his pocket and held it in the palm of his hand, flapping with the other arm until he was at what could be a standing position. His hair wasn't sticking up any more, so he wasn't upside down at least. It had taken him a while to discover the dimensions as with no shadows to rely on he simply had to wait until he thought the blood was running to his head. 

"So why are you here?" 

SQUEAK. 

"I don't damn well need looking after!" Vimes said indignantly.  "I'm Commander of the… well… kind of…" He trailed off. 

SQUEAK. 

"Being killed does _not_ count as being careless!" Vimes snapped. 

"What the…?"

 A strange numbing sensation began. It was like someone placed mufflers on his ears. He felt his limbs slowing. His vision began to blur. Then as if someone had pulled the plug hole on reality, he began to fall. 

"Aaaaaaaaaa-"

~~~~

"-aaargh!"

Vimes opened his eyes and stared with horror at his world. Everything was upside down! 

With a burst of panic he straightened his legs to run. 

Narrowly missing the table he fell head first into the room and landed with a soft bounce onto the bed, only to be very quickly overwhelmed with a swamp of covers. 

Rolling instinctively he fell in a heap onto the floor. 

"Ronnie! Ronnie! Get him Ronnie!"

"This is the last straw!"

Rough hands grabbed at him and he was hauled to his feet, blinking with wide eyed surprise at the scene that met his eyes. 

Lord Rust stood in front of him, bristling with cold anger. He was wearing a long white night shirt, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles. It would have been funny, if he wasn't feeling so confused. His wife clung to his arm and looked down at Vimes with horror. 

Looked down. 

Looked _down._

_Oh no…_

Sam Vimes gulped and looked down at his body. He nearly fainted. 

Where his hardened thin-soled Watch boots should have been, a pair of filthy big feet protruded from his ankles. Ragged torn trousers hung about his waist. 

"I'm a street urchin?!" Vimes yelled, horrified.  

"Be quiet! I know exactly what you are!" Rust snapped.

Vimes twisted and stared at a large mirror on the table behind him. As he watched the eyes that stared back at him changed from an unfamiliar brown to his own dark greyish blue. A mud caked face stared back at him, short brown hair flopped over his eyes. 

He was probably about 12 years old. 

"Oh gods…"

"Guards! Guards!"

Half a dozen armed guards came rushing into the room. One grabbed Vimes and lifted him with ease. Sam struggled wildly as Rust looked at him with ocean deep disgust. A woman Vimes presumed to be his wife hastily wrapped sheets around her body and scrambled into a sitting position, hastily hooking blond hair behind her ears.

"Unlicensed thieving, eh?" The guard grinned evilly. "Shall I hand him over to the Thieves Guild?"

Vimes growled, "No you idiot! Let me go!" 

Oh gods. It sounded more like squeaking he thought, as a high pitched whine escaped his mouth.   

Rust turned and walked behind a large screen in the corner of the room. His voice floated over the top. 

"No. This is the last straw. I'll have Vimes's head for this. The idiot man thinks little crimes like this can be overlooked…" He emerged fully clothed. "Vetinari cannot allow this for much longer." 

The Guards exchanged glances. 

"Haven't you heard, sir?" Vimes caught a glance of Freddy Weever out of the corner of his eye. 

Rust straightened from putting on his shoes and brushed the hair out of his eyes, giving the man an annoyed look.  

"What do you mean?"

"Why, Commander Vimes is dead, sir. Murdered last night on the rooftops." The urchin in the captains grip stopped struggling and gave a little predatory grin. 

"Good riddance." Rust placed a hat carefully on his head. The boy gave a growl and scowled ferociously, lashing out helplessly with his legs.  

"Excellent. His successor should be willing to listen to my complaint. Come."

"Where are we going sir?" 

"The Watch house." With that Rust stormed out of the room.  

Vetinari opened his eyes, and let them take in his surroundings. 

Unlike Vimes he had infinite patience, and therefore lay quite still for a long time. He filed all of what he'd learnt, and his present experience. 

The great cogs of his mind began to turn. 

He sat up, and raised his eyebrows at the sight of his body. 

How ironic. 

Vetinari swung his legs nimbly off the side of the bed. He stood still for a moment, then sighed and went across to the wardrobe to search for a dress.  


End file.
